


Comeback

by serein



Series: The Ella Eyre Stories - Broken Hearts and Broken Words [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bayern München, FC Schalke 04, German National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:24:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Thomas' party, Benedikt and Manuel are still going strong. A little chronicle of faith, friendship, and the eternal wish I have for all of us to stay true and honest to the soul inside of us.<br/>Sequel to "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comeback

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangina/gifts).



> Yes, here's the second Ella Eyre story. You can read [ "We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off" here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2234289).
> 
> This one's set to Comeback (also by Ella Eyre). Find it [ here](https://soundcloud.com/ellaeyre/comeback-stripped). This is the stripped version-again, more vulnerable. The official has such an energy that makes me feel better on a bad day (like getting dumped or ugh stuff like that) so you can also listen to that [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TY_h1C4bwEo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, unfortunately (or I should be really rich heh).

* * *

_When he returns he puts you in a situation_  
 _But it's too late to have that kinda conversation_  
 _It's not your job to show this boy some education, no_  
 _Now ain't it funny how we never seem to work it out_  
-Ella Eyre, Comeback  


Two years later, Manuel is sitting at the same bar at the exact same time. Frau Kahn is still running the daycare across the street, the hookers are still seeking promotion inside a sea full of children, and the neon lamp still sheds off the same eerie glow-a testament to the past, perhaps.  
But now, there is something different.  
No, the bartender didn't pass or get sick or injured-he just aged, wrinkles lining his forehead, untold stories of hardship and cruelties yet also love and dedication and a broken kind of hope. The countertops are nearly identical besides the slight jading of the wood, the scratches the equivalent of battle scars from the smashing of glasses from breakups and the spills from infatuation. The bar stool cushions have been ripped, but that's not any news-the bartender has realized that it happens no matter how cautious or careful he asks his patrons to be. The glasses still gleam, the crystals refracting the light-it has not aged in the slightest.  
Instead, it is Manuel's proximity to people.  
There is now a dirty-blond haired creature (conveniently Manuel's coworker and better half, Benedikt Höwedes) clutching Manu's left bicep, a habit he has obtained ever since they first got together at Thomas' party.  
The bar is serene, save for the two of them, the bartender himself and a solitary guy: twenty-something, young, naïve, cautious. His back turned to the couple, Manuel wonders why he does not have a loved one with him, or why he is here. This bar has a reputation for catering to two kinds of people-those who are heartbroken, and those who are in love.  
Only these two exist-there is no in between, no grey, no middling ground.  
So why is he here?  
Has he been wrecked?  
Manuel knows what it's like to be wrecked.  
Degrading.  
Selfish.  
Guilty.  
And in a recherché way, satisfied that you are done with that person, done with the life of war and drama and romance and destruction and love.  
And _I Miss You's_ , if you were stupid enough to work eleven and a half hours.  
Unless you were dating your boss-but that would be totally inappropriate (kind of).  
Anyways-back to the boy.  
The boy's drink has remained untouched yet he hasn't looked up once since sitting down-not even to talk to The Bartender. He seems to just look out the window  


And you know what?  
Manuel is afraid for him. Manuel is afraid that the boy will find himself where Manuel found himself two years ago, desperate and ready for things he didn't understand-things that he would have regretted all his life, things that might take away a part of him that he might not ever get back. Subconsciously, Manuel unrolls his sleeve and feels the scars-they're from a time Manuel wishes he will forget, from a time that Manuel wishes never happened all together.  
But if he had never learned struggle, he would have never learned courage or love or compassion or, as Benedikt taught him, having somebody there.  
But he certainly cannot let this boy go where he had gone.  
So Manuel goes to talk to him.  
Pulling apart Benedikt's fingers from his bicep, he pushes the stool back abruptly, a screech that startles even Manuel himself. The boy, however, doesn't flinch. Manuel hesitates for the hundredth time before he walks over to the boy, counting his steps, as he has always done.  
One.  
Two.  
Three.  
Four.  
Five.  
Six.  
"Hey?"  
The boy doesn't reply.  
Then Manuel realizes who it is.  
The hair.  
It is...  
It is that of an old friend.  
An old friend who found himself a beautiful life, a life of love and happiness.  
It is Thomas Müller-Klose.  
The man who had put the pendulum in motion without noticing it-the one who had hosted a party Manuel had never forgotten.  
The party that Thomas' celebration of his wedding, of his companionship to Miro.  
Where is Miro?  
Looking back at Benni, who has assumed his signature worried look, he shakes his head slowly, and Benedikt looks down, stirring his cup of coffee slowly, contemplating, cautious.  
The Bartender is no longer in sight.  
"Thomas, talk to me."  
Thomas ignores him, back still turned towards Manu, but he shifts uncomfortably.  
"Why are you here?"  
"Manu, go away."  
"Thomas, why are you here? Legend says that only the heartbroken come here alone."  
"It's a fucking public bar. Please go away, I just need to think.  
"Thomas, please."  
"Manu, **go**."  
Walking around to face Thomas, he stares deep into his friend's eyes, as if looking for an answer.  
For once in his life, Thomas is not smiling.  
Thomas is not one bit amused.  
Nor does he look like he is terribly sad.  
No, Thomas is emotionless.  
Flat.  
Blank.  
Looking over Thomas' shoulder, Manuel shakes his head again at Benedikt, who opens and then abruptly closes his mouth like a gaping fish-except he is gaping for information. He is also worried that there will be blood.  
Instead, there are only the things that Manuel fears the most-things that had defined him two years ago.  
There are tears-but not the quiet, cool tears Manuel had experienced-the loud kind, with the choking and the sniffling and the full-out sobbing.  
Immediately, Manuel offers to put his arms around Thomas, but before they close in, they're stopped.  
"Please don't touch me," Thomas whimpers.  
"A hug is good," Manuel whispers, soft and gentle.  
"N-no, Manu, please, please, please don't touch me."  
But when Manuel reaches for him, Thomas pushes him away and runs for the door, howling.  
"P-please don't come near me, Manuel"  
Benedikt's face is an easy page to read- _what are we going to do?_  
But Manuel knows exactly what he has to do.  
Slowly he approaches Thomas, who backs up until he can back up no longer-the plaster on the wall is cold, cruel, harsh to touch. Thomas quakes, hesitant, nervous, his lanky legs slightly bent. Thomas shudders, a ragged choke that Manuel finds a hard time to erase from his memory.  
Manuel keeps going, unchanging in his expression. His eyebrows are knitted, and the eyes are fierce with an intensity that Benedikt has never seen in Manuel-they radiate with a foreign pain, a pain that Benedikt feels is genuine. Closing in on Thomas, he outstretches his arms, looking into the troubled eyes of Thomas-undoubting that they have seen and gone through the same pain, a pain that no one else understands. Abruptly, Thomas latches onto Manuel, his spindly legs wrapping around Manuel's waist, his arms clinging furiously to Manu's neck and broad shoulders, sobbing into the chest of this benefactor, this unknown stranger.  
Manuel turns his head slightly and gestures to Benedikt, speaking in a secret language of body language and head movements, a language they have developed after years of knowing each other: _Go home._  
Benedikt hesitates, fidgeting with his fingers, locking them together. But he complies, whispering Manuel a quiet goodbye, a haunting farewell. He exits the bar without a sound.  
Thomas continues, his voice hoarse from the wear-down, undeniable.  
The night fades and the silence swallows, an echo of Manuel's own weakness, a testament of his faith.  


* * *

_We've all been played, we all get hurt_  
 _Just take that pain and let that motherfucker burn_  
 _And you know that in time you will find_  
 _That they always come back, yeah they always come back_  
 _They're all the same, they never learn_  
 _So dig their grave, and let that motherfucker burn_  
 _And you know that in time you will find_  
 _That they always come back, yeah they always come back._  
-Ella Eyre, Comeback  
It is an hour later before Thomas opens his mouth-his voice is raspy and nearly unintelligible.  
"M-Miro. M-Miro. It was Miro."  
"What did he do, Thomas?"  
The bar stool is still cold, the vicarious leather jarring to touch.  
The Bartender has left, Manuel notes. He has gone home.  
He has never gone home this early.  
Thomas responds with difficulty as a tear spills out of his eye, running down his face like a wild horse, rebellious, poetic, painful for Manuel to watch.  
"He doesn't w-want me anymore."  
"What?"  
"H-he doesn't want me anymore."  
"Like for sex?"  
Surprised that Thomas is so narrowly minded, he prods.  
"Sorry-I mean like for pleasure."  
"Like...for anything."  
"Did he...tell you?"  
Rubbing his lip, Thomas traces circles before answering.  
Manuel lets him take his time, knowing what it means to be hurt.  
"When I came home today, there was another man there."  
"Who?"  
"A younger man. A-a man who could make him feel good, a man who seemed serious and professional, somebody who was like Miro."  


And then, Manuel realizes that Thomas has always been in pain.  
The calls.  
The complaints.  
The countless questions of, "Do I look good, Manu?"  
Questions that, before Miro, Thomas never asked.  
It was all a ruse, a disguise for Thomas.  
Something that made Miro accept him.  
Fuck Miro.  
How could Miro not love somebody like Thomas?  
How could Miro be so blindsided that somebody as sweet, as happy as Thomas should change himself to suit Miro?  
It all comes back to Manu in a rush.  
The comment about Thomas' emotional dependency at the party.  
The time that Thomas was worried about the age gap.  
The time that Miro left to go work in Italy for a couple of months and told Thomas that he might leave forever.  
And what did Thomas do?  
Thomas bought a plane ticket for himself, too.  
One-way.  
How could he be so stupid to not have seen this?  
Manuel's guilt brings bile to his throat-he is sickened that he himself has been so blind, so oblivious to Thomas' struggle, Thomas' effort to fit himself to Miro, to make himself like Miro.  
To make himself like what Miro wanted.  
"Manuel? Won't you talk to me? Please, don't you ignore me too."  
"Oh-sorry, Thomas."  
"It's okay."  
"No-listen to me. I'm sorry."  
"Yeah, I know, it's okay."  
"No-I'm sorry."  
"Okay. You're sorry. I get it. It's okay."  
"No, it's not okay."  
"Manuel, it's okay that you weren't paying attention."  
"But it's not okay that I was _fucking_ blind to how you were feeling! It's not okay that I fucked up with you! That I never asked you whether you and Miro ever fucking fought or were in trouble! And I'm your fucking best friend!"  
"Manu, it's okay, don't you worry about it, ducky."  
"Don't worry about it? If I had only stepped in, you would have never fucking got with this fucking guy!"  
"But I loved it."  
"You liked being used?"  
"No, but I liked...having someone there."  


Benedikt's words from nearly two years ago fly to Manuel's mind: _sometimes...it's not about sex, or pleasure, or even love, but really it's about having someone there. Someone like me who cares about you, Manuel._  
"You're right."  
"Of course I'm right."  
The two men look at each other, and a weak smile forms on Thomas' face.  
Thomas smiling.  
It was beautiful.  
Which gets Manuel thinking.  
"Do you want to ride a horse, Thomas?"  
"What?"  
"Do you want to ride a horse?"  
"Um-Manuel, it's the middle of the night."  
"Remember that time when you were still straight?"  
"No, I've always been gay, just in denial for...nineteen years."  
"Anyways. You were dating this girl...Lisa, I think her name was, and she was an equestrian?"  
"Yeah-she was way too good for me. Beautiful, funny, nice. Why I turned gay right after her still baffles me..."  
"Well-I've been talking to her."  
"You're cheating on Benni? With a GIRL?"  
Thomas spits out 'girl' like a curse word.  
"No, no, just friends with her."  
"Better be, or else I'm smacking you across the face. If you cheat on Benni, you're dead to me, you little piece of bullshit."  
"I love you, too."  
"I know you do."  
"Now-back to Lisa. She promised that as long as I was careful, I could take one of her horses-whenever I wanted."  
"So we're going to steal a horse?"  
"Yup."  
"Are you sure stealing a 900-pound animal will be a good idea?"  
"We're going to return it in the morning."  
"Won't Benni worry?"  
"Thomas, when were you the one who asked all the questions-the responsible questions, not the questions that were about where the ice cream machine was?"  
"Good point."  
"Let's go."  
The two men exit the bar, Thomas' smile visibly brightening.  
The door swings shut, and Manuel remembers to lock the bar up with an old key the Bartender had given him years ago (after a thorough search of his wallet, of course).  
Running through Munich's streets like drunken madmen, the pair find themselves a few blocks down from the bar, where Manuel's car is parked.  
"Get in, Thomas."  
"It's locked."  
"Oh-right, um...keys?"  
"Why would I have your keys?"  
"Oh-right, yeah, um? Um? Keys? Keys? Where are my keys?"  
"Haha, you can't find your keys?"  
"No-where did they-Thomas, why are you laughing?"  
Thomas loses it.  
"Thomas, give me the keys."  
"I don't have them!"  
"And Bastian is a rabbit."  
"Considering the amount of sex he has with Lukas, that might be true."  
"Thomas, GIVE ME THE KEYS!"  
Great, Manuel thinks to himself. It is twelve-thirty at night and I am chasing Thomas Müller-Klose-oh, wait he dumped that motherfucker-Thomas Müller around my black Mercedes-which, in technicality, is Benedikt's car. If I scratch this bitch up, I'm so dead...  
"Thomas Müller, give me the keys right now or your ASS WILL BE DEAD!" He just laughs and starts running down the alley, his tennis shoes pounding against cobblestone, the inventions of modern day working in harmony with the vintage, archaic feel of the past.  
"Okay, fine, maybe we can just go grab that Arabian stallion tomorrow!"  
No reply, still running.  
"Okay, Thomas, I'm going to catch you!"  


And slowly, but surely, Manuel catch up to Thomas-even if he is smaller and also less intoxicated than himself.  
When Manu get to him, he does what any human would when they see their mischievous, sonofabitch best friend: tackle him.  
After a couple of light punches in the gut and a bit of squirming, Thomas has been successfully pinned down by the tall blond.  
Panting, Manuel gives Thomas a little victory wink and stumbles through his next words.  
"You know, Thomas, you're a little bitch and I don't know why I bother."  
"It's because you love me."  
"Very good point."  
"Hahah! Now I'm the one who's the smart one!"  
"Thomas, you act like a seven-year-old."  
"When do I not act like a seven-year-old?"  
"True. But, Thomas, will you promise me one thing?"  
"Yeah, sure."  
"Never, ever stop being my best friend, okay?"  
"Yeah, I promise."  
"Good."  


Manuel lets the laughter roll away the night as the lamppost sheds a gentle light on them while the church bells strike one.

**Author's Note:**

> For orangina, because she wanted me to write a follow-up.  
> I broken and burned with a sequel, in traditional Sarah-style. If I ever decide to write a _third_ part, perhaps I will repair things. I was going to break Benni and Manuel up but I decided against it-stay tuned, though :D.  
>  There are references to Pausenclown-not accidental. I hope to god that Sarah isn't pissed at me xD  
> Also-anybody have any guesses for who the Bartender is? :P
> 
> All constructive criticism is accepted as long as it isn't violent. Yeah, I know, this wasn't very good-the flow is unnatural and the movements awkward, inhuman even. I wasn't going to post this-but went with it anyways. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta, Max, as always, who didn't edit this but did write like 1/4th of it xD  
> or maybe more i'm just underestimating what he's done for me in terms of how the words work together  
> ugh stop being good  
> like hOW CAN YOU BE SO GOOD AT WRITING FANFICTION I'VE BEEN WRITING IT FOR YEARS  
> HOW IS THAT BETTER THAN NINE MONTHS  
> DOESN'T MAKE ANY DAMN SENSE  
> maybe i just suck at fiction???????????????  
> ugh 
> 
> if you read all of this i love you even your confused face at my message to the stupid beta who i hate and want to personally castrate  
> jUST KIDDING MAX YOU'RE THE BEST
> 
> Finally, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :)


End file.
